


Wiggle Room

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Past Lives, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-17 19:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17566478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: The Doctor had never believed in second chances, but this is something new entirely - a new life, a new existence, and a new beginning.





	Wiggle Room

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for _The Hybrid,_ the Whouffaldi zine, but I'm posting it here now for everyone to enjoy!

“Doctor, remind me why we need to do this?” Clara asked, taking a seat on a rocking chair that the TARDIS had thoughtfully placed in the corner of the overcrowded room crammed full of… well, the polite word would be “miscellanea.” Letting out a long breath, she placed one hand on her stomach, feeling a fluttering of kicks against her palm, as though her unborn child was agreeing with her that the Time Lord’s actions seemed strange. That, or they were irate about the sudden rocking motions their mother was making. One of the two. “We have an infinite time machine-slash-spaceship. It can create rooms out of thin air if need be. Why are we clearing out a junk room to make it into a nursery?”

“Because,” the Doctor’s head appeared over a pile of miscellaneous objects, and she bit back a laugh when she realised he had wrapped himself from nose to sternum in an overly long scarf in a multitude of eye-watering colours. “This is what humans do, isn’t it?”

“What, wrap themselves in lurid scarves?”

He shot her a wounded look, pulling the scarf down to reveal the rest of his face. “No, they clear things out of one area of their life to make space for the new — which, in this example, is the small human they have acquired. So, that’s what we’re going to do.” 

“I like that you’re calling it ‘acquired,’ like I just woke up one morning and this,” she gestured to her bump, “was a thing.” 

“I mean…” the corner of his mouth quirked up into a smirk that managed to be both maddening and endearing. “Wasn’t it, more or less?” 

“Well, there was the matter of the night before, but yes,” she stuck her tongue out at him cheekily. “We are never going back to the planet of the people with the long necks. That was a hangover from hell.” 

“I did point out that the hangover was probably an after-effect of conception… it can happen with-” 

“Please do not remind me of the fact that our child is a weird alien spawn and might have two heads.” 

“They will not have two heads, Clara. Don’t be absurd. And don’t call them ‘spawn.’” 

“Two _hearts_ are pretty absurd, and yet here you are, stood in front of me with your weird dual-cardiovascular system.” The child in her womb kicked against her hand in protest. “Ouch. Yes, and there you are, too. You’re both weird. But you aren’t spawn; he might have a point there. Sorry, kiddo.”

“Thank you. Be nice to them!”

“I am being nice!” Clara protested. “I’m always nice to them, I’m the one growing them!”

“Well…” he dithered for a moment, then his expression softened substantially. “Good, because they’re the reason you’re still here.” 

“Doctor…” she said sternly, holding up a warning finger. She knew what he was about to say, and she knew also that it would make him misty-eyed and sentimental in the same way it always did. “Don’t.” 

“Clara,” he crossed the room before she could caution him against it and crouched before her, taking her hands in his and pressing a kiss to the convex curve of her stomach. “The Time Lords gave you — us — a reprieve in order to save one of their own. A tiny, precious one of their own. We have to be grateful for that.” 

“You know what I’m more grateful for, though?” Clara hummed, pulling him up by the scarf until his face was approximately level with her own. “The fact that this little squish’s existence actually made us talk about things.” 

“Oh?” he adopted a quizzical expression. “What do you mean by ‘things’?” 

“Things like… oh, I don’t know,” she mirrored his look of polite confusion. “Being in love? That kind of trivial thing.” 

“Urm, I object to that kind of language. I take being in love with you _very_ seriously.”

“Good,” she grinned, then pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Because so do I. Although not when you’re wearing that scarf.” 

“Excuse me,” the Doctor said with magnanimity. “This is an exceptionally dignified scarf that saw many years of service.” 

“As what? A landing strip for planes? A neck-warmer for a giraffe?” 

“You are far too cheeky,” he unwound the offending item of knitwear from his neck and then piled it up on her lap. “That has centuries of my life wound into it. I’d thank you to respect it.” 

“Respect the history, yes. Respect the colour scheme… not so much,” Clara grinned up at him, weaving her hands through the fabric, nonetheless, and holding it against her bump. “Hey, little one. This was one of Daddy’s outfits once. What do we think?" 

There was a distinct, unhappy kick to her spine. 

“Ow! OK, no, they aren’t a fan, either.” 

“And you know that because?” 

“They have literally just turned over and kicked my spine in response to those godawful colours. What else have you got?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, this is _your_ junk room, is it not?” she raised an eyebrow. “So, go and find some meaningful junk and give me a history lesson.”

“Yes, boss,” he placed his hand against her cheek fleetingly, skimming a thumb over the skin there, before giving her a lopsided grin and disappearing back among the towering piles of artefacts — remnants of his life before her. Being surrounded by so much evidence of his previous lives was overwhelming, but that wasn’t a bad thing — she felt close to him in ways that she hadn’t before and she relished the chance to look around, trying to pick out individual items that she might be able to ascribe meaning to. Within arm’s reach of her was a fez, so she reached for that and set it atop her head as she listened to the Doctor scrambling around, interspersed with the occasional sliding noise as a pile of objects gave way and allowed gravity to reclaim it. 

“Daddy is weird,” she told her bump, solemnly. “He’s an overexcited puppy about you, though, and I know he seems a bit scared and a bit emotional, but it’s all going to be alright. We’re both going to look after you, and we both love you to bits already.”

There was a triumphant crowing from the other side of the room, and then the Doctor appeared holding aloft a blue-painted wooden cot embossed with gold Gallifreyan lettering, looking almightily smug about the discovery. 

“Look what I found!” he said gleefully, setting it down in front of her with a flourish. “I can’t believe I still have it, I thought…” 

He glanced up at her then looked abruptly, incomprehensibly guilty. “Never mind.”

“You thought what?” 

“I thought Amy still had it,” he said, chewing his lip nervously, as though the mere mention of his previous companion might cause her to turn into the Hulk. “Sorry.” 

“Amy was part of your life,” she reached over and ruffled his hair reassuringly. “I’m not going to begrudge you mentioning her.” 

“But-” 

“It’s not like Amy ended up having a small human who was half-you,” she reminded him, poking her tongue out at him childishly. “Unlike I am presently doing. So, I like the cot. And I’m fine with you mentioning your old companions.” 

“It was… urm, it was my cot,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in the way he did when he was nervous. “So, I thought it might be nice to put the little one in it.” 

Clara blinked down at it, sliding inelegantly from her chair onto the floor so that she could examine it more closely. As she ran her fingers over the embossed lettering, she felt a shiver of understanding.

“Is this… your name?” she asked, and he nodded. “Will I ever be able to read it?” 

“Maybe, although it would take years of study.”

“Will the baby?” 

“Almost certainly.”

“Well then,” she smiled, rocking the cot gently with one hand to see how it felt. Natural. Right. Comfortable. “That’s good.” 

Reaching inside, the Doctor extracted a small blue TARDIS, one that seemed to have been made by a child using coloured paper and sticky tape. “What about this?” 

Clara took it with the utmost care, turning it over in her hands and examining the crayoned-on windows and doors. “It’s cute,” she gave it an experimental spin, then gasped as a memory struck her. She’d seen it before — she’d held it before, and played with it in the same manner. That had been many, many moons ago now — the memory had laid in her head, half-buried and dormant, for all this time. “I…” 

“Are you alright?” the Doctor scooted closer to her, wrapping an arm around her waist with concern and pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. “What’s wrong?” 

“I…” she swallowed drily, squirming away from him a little, feeling stifled by his clinging. “I’ve seen this before; this TARDIS. And there was… there was a magnifying glass, and a book in the library, and I think I’ve seen this cot before too.” 

He understood at once. Of course he did. “The day you crashed the TARDIS,” he breathed, letting out a sad little sigh. “The day I thought I’d lost you forever.” 

“I didn’t _crash_ it,” she corrected, giving him a playful nudge to discourage him from getting too worked up about events long forgotten. “It was sabotaged. And look. I’m still here. Still alright.” 

“Yeah, after I watched you die… more times than I can count.”

“Doctor-” 

“You can protest that the echoes weren’t you all that you want, but they were to me. And then on Trap Street…” his voice broke. “God, I thought I would regenerate then and there. The pain… especially knowing…” his eyes flicked to her stomach, then back to her face. “I didn’t want to be in this body any more. I didn’t want to be trapped by a physical shell that would yearn for you every second of every day. If it hadn’t been for Ashildr…” 

“I know,” she breathed, resting her forehead against his in a bid to alleviate the horror that came with his recollections of the past. “But your people did the right thing. They fixed everything. And I’m still here. Please don’t grieve for me — I’m safe with you. Safer than safe. We _both_ are.”

It was a familiar conversation by now — him worrying, her reassuring him, him growing melancholy, and her reminding him that he had reason to be happy. Still, it grew no easier with each reiteration. Every time, her heart ached uncomfortably in her chest as she was reminded of the uncertainty which came with her reprieve from the Time Lords — whether they would want her to return to Trap Street once the child was born, or whether she would be permitted to stay as she was: chronolocked, save for the parts of her that the child depended on to grow and survive. It was a curious existence, to be both living and dead at once, and she cupped her bump and closed her eyes, trying not to dwell on her fears about the future. Their child was strong, and healthy, and developing well. Their child had brought them together, and their child had saved her life — she would not waste her second chance.

“I love you,” the Doctor breathed, as though sensing her inner turmoil. “Both of you.” 

“I love you, too,” Clara whispered, burying her face in his chest for a moment, regaining her composure. “Now, I believe we have a junk room to clear…”


End file.
